A most enjoyable transaction for Candy Flour
by Bella
Summary: You didn't think that the flurry of flashbulbs at the opening of Gemma's art pavilion wouldn't have had any consequences, did you?


**A most enjoyable transaction for Candy Flour**

Disclaimer: "Ringer" belongs to CW, the producers, writers, actors and all the people who make it happen. I don't want to infringe on their rights and I certainly make no profit out of this little story. Miss Candice Flavo, also known under the name Candy Flour, your friendly neighbourhood hooker, is solely mine.

Summary: You didn't think that the flurry of flashbulbs at the opening of Gemma's art pavilion wouldn't have had any consequences, did you?

Time frame: About 2 weeks after "Keep it and the family together" and one week into the home straight for Martin/Charles

Again, I have to tell first that I'm not very, read: at all familiar with the slang used by working girls in the United States. I suppose it would be difficult enough for me in my native language. I apologise for inconsistencies in wording and manners. But at least I used American spelling for this story to make it more authentic ;-) And thank you very much for reading and your kind and helpful comments of my last work.

I hope they will be now busy enough in Ringer-Land to let me return to the England of a past age. Horatio's still sitting on the cold church floor in an undignified heap. He'll get a nasty cold, if I don't let him get up soon.

_This indicates Candy's thoughts. _

* * *

Candy Flour had donned her most respectable clothes ( a black patent leather skirt of medium length, a silver cotton shirt albeit a bit low cut and a dark red coat), applied her day make-up, even forgone her beloved thick false lashes for once, had her platinum-blond hair pulled up in a boring house-wife bun, and still she stood out like a shark in a goldfish bowl. Well, they could stare at her to their heart's content; she'd long stopped giving a toss about it. In fact, sometimes she even enjoyed it as she did now - that was until some upset moralizer loudly and vehemently voiced their opinion that she wasn't welcome at this particular place - be it the grocery store, the shopping mall or just the gas-station. But most of the time she was simply overlooked; regular people liked to pretend she didn't exist by looking right through her or the women often enough looked away, ashamed or uncomfortable, yet full of compassion and secret relief that they weren't the ones walking in her shoes, which had rather flat heels for a change this late morning, coming to speak of shoes. Well, she had had to walk a few blocks, thank you very much, and you simply didn't get very far on 5" heels.

She felt the afore mentioned stares on her while she was looking at the many company names on the polished brass board, that dominated a very big part of the marbled wall opposite of the entrance, and searched for a particular company. There it was – Martin/Charles, 24th to 28th floor. Now, where would be the office of Mr. Moneybag? Probably at the top to better look down on his troops. She adjusted the strap of her big hold-all/purse and pressed the button for the elevator. In the corner of her eye she saw a no-nonsense security guy approaching. _Well,__not__ya__lucky__day__today,__mister_. _This__is__a__public__building.__I__have__the__same__rights__to__be__here__as__the__lot__of__ya.__Besides,__I__could__tell__ya__a__thing__or__two__about__these__so-called__respectable__people._It opened with a discrete "ding". _Money__really__makes__all__the__difference._ She smiled invitingly at some middle-aged, overworked paper pusher in a suit that probably cost more than she made in a week, who had stepped into the cabin with her, yet anxious not to be associated with her by keeping a respectable distance. They were carried smoothly and silently upwards. _Yes,__New__York__'__s__the__place__to__be,__certainly__not__Green__Valley,__Wyoming._ She felt his unsure, calculating gaze on her, now that they were alone together. _Hmh,__what__'__s__the__going__rate__in__Manhattan?_

"Hi, Tiger, would ya press the 28th for me?" she growled lustily at the man. "Thanks a lot, honey. I owe ya." Again Candy smiled enticingly and quickly checked for a wedding band. There it was. A bit tight around the finger, meaning he was married for at least five years. No, not worth the effort. Besides, Mr. Moneybag awaited her, even if he didn't know it yet. And when he had coughed up the Franklins, she would never have to smile again at pathetic losers like Mr. Sweaty Paperpusher.

Again the elevator doors opened with a quiet "ding". She stepped out and blew the man a kiss nevertheless, before she resolutely walked towards the big double glass doors; no need to develop now a case of nerves. An elegant writing on the doors showed her that this were indeed the offices of the top management of Martin/Charles along with accounting and HR.

Candy took a deep breath and went through the doors. Immediately all activities came to an abrupt halt. She let her gaze wander over the men and the women. The men were curious and more or less interested, the women disgusted and ready to pounce on her. The likes of her weren't welcomed in a place where the women had to adopt the look of cool bitches in suits that were designed to make them as men-like as possible without loosing the rest of their femininity. _Pathetic,_ Candy thought. _What__makes__ya__think__ya__better__than__me?__Really,__ya__sell__yaself__as__much__as__I__do.__But__at__least__I__do__it__honestly__and__in__a__straight__forward__deal._

Now, where were the assistants of Mr. Moneybag seated? If Mrs. Moneybag was smart, she would have had a say in with whom her husband spent a considerable amount of time every day in a close working relationship. They would probably be in their middle to end of forties, well put together with the air of a strict school-teacher, yet charming in a businesslike manner and married with at least two children. They'd be efficient, competent and able to act like a ferocious gate keeper that kept all the unwelcome phone calls and visitors away from her boss. Ah, there she was.

Self-confident Candy walked up the desk of a Mrs. Florence Walker, PA to Mr. Andrew Martin.

"I've an appointment with Mr. Martin, honey. Just tell me which door and I'll take it from here."

By now you would have heard a pin drop onto the thick carpet.

"I don't think _you_ would have an appointment with Mr. Martin, … miss. Besides, he doesn't want to be disturbed."

"Wanna bet, he's available for me, honey? Twenty bucks says he'll make time for me. Just pick up the phone and let him know that I'm here to see him on the matter of Bridget Kelly. The name's Candy Flour, but for ya it's Miss Candice Flavo."

"I certainly won't. I'd rather you leave now. And please, do NOT come back."

"Okay, you asked for it…. MR. MARTIN! MR. ANDREW MARTIN…"she shouted at the top of her lungs. Really, she would have been surprised, if the dragon had picked up the phone.

"Dear God, stop it, Ms Flavo, will you? I see what I can do for you." The dragon shushed her.

"Please do, honey." Candy grinned brightly at her. She couldn't remember the last time she had so much fun. _Miss__Flavo__…__.__,__really!_ She watched triumphantly as the dragon picked up the phone.

"Andrew?…. Yes, I know you asked not to be disturbed…A…lady, Ms Flavo…. is here to see you. ….I told her you had no time….It's about one Bridget Kelly…. Sir?... Yes, sir. Immediately."

Dumbfounded the dragon put down the receiver and stood up, smoothing her correct office-length skirt.

"If you'd follow me, please, miss."

"See, I told ya he'd drop everything for me. Ah, so nice to know I still have it." Candy snickered and followed quickly the dragon. Now, she was really curious. As soon as she had seen the picture of a guy called Henry Butler, whoever he was but apparently he had offed his wife without making it stick to him, with one Siobhan Martin dressed up as a fancy doll – the spitting image of her dear friend Bridget standing next to him at the opening of some art gallery or samesuch - she had smelled an opportunity. She had gone into the next internet café and googled the Martins. And the more she had read, the larger her smile had become. Bridget Kelly would be her one-way ticket out of hell.

In her back she could hear the gossip starting. Well, her visit was probably the highlight of the year right after the annual Christmas party. Mrs. Dragon knocked, waited a moment and then ushered her in, before closing discretely the door behind her. Now Candy was alone with Mr. Moneybag. Oh well, some girls had ALL the luck, even if the guy looked severely pissed-off right now behind his posh desk.

"So nice of ya to make time for me, Mr. Martin. May I call you Andrew? You've a beautiful office. I'd like some coffee, please."

"What do you want?" He made no move to greet her, didn't offer a seat, in fact he still had his pen in his hand hovering over some documents. He couldn't make you feel less welcome.

"Okay, straight to business. I like that in a guy."

Andrew Martin didn't answer, just waited for her to speak up. Candy smiled and stepped towards the window to take a look at New York from further above. At night it must be breathtaking she decided. But if he wanted to play that old trick of 'who speaks up first loses the game'…. She had all the time in the world.

"If that's all, miss. I have better things to do." He picked up the phone. "Florence, please call security. The….lady….would like to leave."

"No, wait. It's about Bridget. Bridget Kelly. Your wife's twin sister."

"Florence, wait a moment, please. " He put the receiver down again. "I know who Bridget Kelly is."

"Yes, I figure you do. Embarrassing, ain't it? The sister of Andrew Martin's wife's a junkie, a stripper and a hooker. What will the gossip rags and your investors say? And what makes it even juicier is the fact, that she's her _twin_sister. Naturally, people will ask themselves: How much alike are they really? They share the same body, do they share also the same character and shall we say'talents'? Ya know, Bridget's used to be a little firecracker. Her coming, no slinking up onto the stage was already enough for some guys to get a hard-on the size of Texas. And when she did her Audrey Hepburn number with the long gloves or when she was Catwoman all in leather… she drove the entire room mad. You could still smell the testosterone outside the club when she stripped and danced. Ya wife ever stripped for ya? Anyway, she made 500 bucks a night just stripping. Naturally, she invested it immediately into coke and stuff. God, she really had it, ya know. She'd've been the kind of us to be hired by the kind of ya, if not for the coke and the booze. Quite sad, really. She's one of those creatures, that have too much love to give and are so much in need to be loved back, but forever look in the wrong places to find it. There was this guy…. He used to drive 100 miles three times a week just to see her strip and for a blowjob afterwards behind the club."

"Why do you tell me that?"

"Ya know, she used to tell us all the time about her Park Avenue sister with her uber rich husband. Naturally, we didn't believe a word of it. I mean, we all have our pipe dreams…and whatever gets you through the day, ya know? And then, one day, she stopped. Just stopped. Tried to get sober. Said she'd met a guy, who told her she could do it, ya know. Naturally, we didn't believe that either. Man, she was so far gone, a couple of hours without a line or two, and she'd've given it away for free just on the promise she'd get some afterwards. We thought we'd see her soon as an overdosed Jane Doe in the morgue. But wouldn't ya believe the things women do for love…. She really made it. She looked like hell, but she was smiling. Said, this guy had saved her life. Said, she was six months sober now and walking the straight and narrow. Said she had started over in Rocky Springs as an honest-to-God waitress. We had quite a laugh. Bridget sober and waitressing for tips. Whatever next? And then she visited again, looking healthier than ever, now that all the stuff was out of her system for good, and even truly happy, strong and full of self-confidence. She was like a completely new person. Wanted to help Amy to clean up her act, too. So sad really, that she chose the wrong day to visit. Intruded quite untimely on a private party. Bodaway wasn't pleased. He hates loose ends. But we all knew she would be smart enough not to testify against him. Nasty piece of work, that man."

Mr. Moneybag looked pointedly at his watch.

"Okay, okay, I get it. Your time's valuable. But so's my knowledge." Candy pulled a magazine out of her bag, threw it onto Mr. Moneybag's desk and bent over. Pleased she noticed his gaze wandering to her cleavage for a second or two. Thank God, she had already started to suspect she was talking to a corpse, cool as he was.

"Page four. Nice picture of your wife, ain't it? Just be glad, that the girls are totally into in Hollywood gossip and don't give a toss about the New York upper crust. I'm the only one who's read this particular article that states your wife's name and her let's say title or profession – _Mrs.__Siobhan__Martin,__pregnant__wife__of__the__successful__and__charming__Andrew__Martin__of__Martin/Charles__talking__with__Henry__Butler,__who__opened__…__._yadayada. Now I wonder… what is the life of ya wife and unborn child – and don't cha have another daughter? Juliet, ain't it? - worth to ya? "

"I wondered when you'd finally start saying what you want instead of telling me Bridget Kelly's sob story. "

"That's a bit harsh, don't you think? But well, if… mind you, IF I would take this picture of your lovely wife to Bodaway… what'd ya think – how much time would he need to come here?"

"My wife doesn't know where her sister is."

"Maybe, maybe not. Bodaway wouldn't care one way or the other. Besides, he has ways to make ya talk. And let me assure ya, ya lovely wife wouldn't be so lovely anymore afterwards and I haven't the faintest, what that'd do to ya little one. It's so easy to miscarry for these tiny women… Not to mention Juliet. Here's the deal: I want one million bucks, Andrew. And nobody will ever hear it from me that Bridget's only living relative lives at Park Avenue."

Candy smiled and walked over to the couch and sat down. Let him think for a while. He would writhe and argue, but he would cough up the Franklins, if he loved his family. Besides, one million bucks was surely small change for that man.

"What guarantees do I have you won't come back or will tell anyway?"

"None. Just trust me. " Candy dropped her act. "Listen, this is my ticket out of my life into a new and better one. One million bucks will be enough to last me for a life time. I'm not greedy and I'm not proud of what I'm doing here. … But make no mistake. I WILL tell Bodaway, if you don't cooperate."

Mr. Moneybag stared at her, asserting if she was trustworthy.

"Okay then, cash or is a check good enough for you?"

Candy wavered. One million bucks in cash. One million ways to spend them... And only one way to get out of the hell that was her life. _Stick__to__the__plan,__girl.__Stick__to__it.__Ya__only__got__this__one__chance._

"Neither. I want ya to make a call to ya bank. Transfer half of the money to this account. Here're the details. Now. After all, your time's valuable. The other half I'd be _delighted_ - ya use fancy words like delighted, don't cha? - to invest with Martin/Charles. Ya know, family matters should stay in the family my old man used to say."

Now that Mr. Moneybag had agreed, surprisingly quickly and without any haggling, she got her cheek back. _Now_ _why__didn__'__t__he__just__call__security__to__kick__me__out__or__call__the__police__for__that__matter?__Sweet__Jesus,__I__just__successfully__blackmailed__Mr.__Andrew__Big__Cheese__Moneybag__Martin!__I__did__it.__I__really__did__IT!__...__Ya__not__nearly__as__tough__as__you__pretend__to__be,__ain__'__t__ya?...__He__must__love__and__is__afraid__for__his__family__very__much__OR__he__very__much__wants__to__keep__a__low__profile__to__avoid__the__scandal__or__the__attention__for__some__reason.__You__should__'__ve__asked__for__five__millions,__stupid!_ Story of her life…. She always almost got the big slice of the cake.

Mr. Moneybag picked up his phone. His face was unreadable. But that didn't bother Candy, quite the opposite – it was familiar. She was used to guys who gave away nothing. All that stood between them and Mr. Moneybag here was a suit from Savile Row.

"Jeff? Andrew Martin. Listen….no, can't make it next Sunday… Let me check my planer... How about the weekend after the 4th? …I see. That's a pity. It's been a long time since we played a round on the green. Jeff, I need to make a transfer. Half a million dollar… No, Siobhan didn't overdraw again for a shoe sale at Bergdorf's. This is serious, Jeffrey. Here are the details…" She listened as Mr. Moneybag stated carefully her account details. He couldn't know that this account was only one day old and would be closed within the hour after the money had arrived, just to be on the safe side. "Thank you, Jeff… Give my regards to Bernice and the children...Bye..."

Mr. Moneybag disconnected the line and pressed another button. "Florence, please bring me the forms for setting up an account with us…. Just fill in your details and I will add the rest to set up an account with us" he finally addressed Candy again.

"Shoe sale, hmh? Expensive wife you've got there. Is she worth it? I mean, in my profession you can smell sexual frustration from a mile. Ya sure you married the right sister? I wouldn't mind offering ya a helping hand, now that we get along so _splendid_…" She tried to adopt a fancy Brit accent and failed spectacularly.

There was some knocking and Florence stepped in. With discrete curiosity she noted her boss sitting behind his desk and the woman sitting on the couch. And as efficient and quietly she came, she went again, after she had handed the forms over to her after a nod from him. For the next minutes, it was quiet in the office, as Candy scribbled away while trying to understand the legal mumbo jumbo.

When she put down her pen at last, Andrew stood up and walked towards her. And for a moment she thought he'd really take her up on her offer to seal the deal in a manner of speaking. But he just picked up the papers, filled in some more details and counter signed them. Wordlessly he then opened his door to dismiss her.

"Good day, Miss Flavo."

"Good day, Andrew. Ya know, this is the first time ever that I got paid by a man for keeping my mouth shut. Nice change of pace. Ya will _personally_oversee my affairs?" She couldn't resist the tease and patted his chest lightly.

Mr. Moneybag smiled tightly and stepped a few inches back to bring even more distance between them. _Well,__his__loss._ She looked up and lookie, Mrs. Trophywife was here. Had she seen it? And didn't she look rather pale all of a sudden. But her likeness to Bridget was amazing. Apart from the rather bland, but high quality clothing and the bun, she couldn't see ANY difference at all. But there was no mistake that this was the other twin. Bridget loved bright colors and open, flowing hair. She wouldn't be caught dead in white and beige and with a bun. _Add__a__few__spots__of__black__and__Mrs.__Moneybag__looks__like__an__anorexic__Saint__Bernhard.__See,__money__doesn__'__t__equal__taste__after__all._

"Siobh, what are you doing here?" Mr. Moneybag was as pleased to see his wife as any husband caught standing next to a hooker in front of an audience of employees, who suddenly refilled their coffee much slower than usual.

"I was in the area and I thought, we could have lunch together, if you're not too busy." She seemed to make a point by ignoring her. Well, there was nothing like leaving a memorable impression. However, Mr. Moneybag had been rather nice to her, so tit for tat...

"Don't you worry, honey. Regrettably, it's not what it looks like."

"I already know that."

"Ya do?" Candy was puzzled.

"If my husband felt the need to cheat on me, he wouldn't do it in his office in the middle of the day with a twenty dollar hooker, ...honey."

"Meow!… Ya know, let me give you a piece of advice. For what ya husband just did and didn't do, he deserves an extra cookie when he comes home tonight."

"I know how to handle my husband, thank you very much."

"Whoa, definitely a temper I recognize."

"Martin/Charles will send the documents to the address you've stated on the forms, Miss Flavo." Mr. Moneybag replied with a clenched jaw and stepped around Candy and up to his wife.

Candy nodded. She felt she had overstayed her welcome for good. With a large smile and a sashaying hilt Candy Flour walked towards the doors of Martin/Charles. But she couldn't resist a last parting shot.

"Hmh, ya know what? I think I'll stick around for a bit. I'll let ya know my new address. I told ya I've a weakness for the New York upper crust. Maybe ya want to introduce me to some of ya friends on occasion?... No?... Oh well, no harm in trying... And Mrs. Martin, please say hi to Bridget from Candy, when ya talk to her next time. Ya know, Andrew, ya wife is even more amazing up close, if ya get my drift. Florence, see that Mr. and Mrs. Martin won't be disturbed for a good, long while. They are going to have a much needed discussion about candy. It's really been a pleasure to do business with Martin/Charles. Have a good day."

And with that she opened the door and stepped out, leaving behind a lot of questions, tempers barely kept in check, and enough material to feed the gossip mills for the next couple of days, if not weeks. On her way down she burst out into a belly deep laugh. Life was going to be great. Really, who had ever said reading gossip mags didn't pay?

The end.

* * *

_Please leave a comment at the reception desk when you leave. Thank you kindly – Your building manager. _


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